


An Obedient Weapon

by CavannaRose



Series: Assorted Marvel Fics [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing left of Bucky, there is only the Weapon. The Winter Soldier, and he is the best at what he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the character, or profit from my work. Etc, etc.

_There are no heroes...in life, the monsters win._

 

Sometimes the images flashed through his head. Were they visions of his life? Someone else's? Training videos? Perhaps he would never know. His handlers called him Зимний Солдат, the Winter Soldier, and he was the best. No questions asked, no dissension. He existed for the mission, and the mission alone. Clean. Simple. That focus, that determination, was earning him a name in certain circles... Less a name and more a horrified whisper. He felt no pride in the accomplishment. It was simply his job. The glory belonged to the Soviet Empire. He was simply the correct tool for the job. Even this much introspection was rare for the soldier. Weapons did not debate their nature. They performed their task and went back on the shelf until needed again.  
  
His head tilted to the side, examining the position of the sun against the backdrop of the city. Enough time had lapsed. Crouching down he stared along the barrel of his 7.62mm Mosin-Nagant, adjusting the PU optical sight until he could see the rise and fall of his target's chest. Steadying the weapon with his prosthetic arm, he gently caressed the trigger, both eyes open, along the slow inhale of breath. His slow exhale saw the body drop to the carpet, men around the stuffy official breaking into action like ants. Security scrambled, but by the time they reached this spot, he would be gone. A ghost. Carefully he packed up his gear and headed for the extraction point. His handlers could trust him to be prompt, down to the second. Even he didn't know the way in and out of the compound. It wasn't important. Only the mission mattered.

_The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our own souls._

The strains of Leonid Utyosov's music came tinnily from a nearby radio as the handlers worked. There had been a slight malfunction in his prosthetic arm on the last mission, and as a dutiful soldier he had reported the information upon his return. Now he sat, cold eyes fixed on a single point on the wall, listening as they flittered about, poking and prodding. These were the men that kept him functional, saw to his needs. Mechanics. They maintained the Weapon so that it was always usable. Though he saw them every day, he never spoke to them other than a "Da" or "net" in response to a direct question.   
  
A flicker of movement in the doorway caught his attention. His commanding officer stood there. In a voice grown gravelly from disuse, he posed a question... or as close to one as he ever came. "Polkóvnik?"   
  
All movement in the room stilled as the Colonel entered, his gaze sweeping the room much as the Weapon's did. His gaze rested on the radio. "Что это?"  
  
One of the handlers stammered out an excuse, but the music was silenced, the radio removed. The Weapon's gaze returned to the blank space on the wall. Without acknowledging the Weapon, the Colonel exits the room, allowing the chastised handlers to go back to their work.

_Nothing is more dangerous to men than a sudden change of fortune._

The cold didn't bother him, he stood stoically amidst the swirling snow as if it was a calm spring morning. Eyes blackened against the glare, he gazed into the distance, tracking the barely visible target against the expanse of greys and whites. All they'd have to do to see him is look... but no one was looking in weather like this. Even the Weapon felt the chill in his bones, though he would never show it. The Soviet's were tough, and he was the fiercest of them all. Carefully he raised his rifle, aiming down the sights. Four figures, struggling in the snow and ice towards their destination. None would make it. Four shots rang out over the nearly impossible distance, and four bodies dropped to the ground. The storm and the animals would take care of the rest. Grimly the Weapon turned, disappearing into the storm as he returned to his keepers.

_Target acquired. Let the hunt begin._

The sound of a silenced shot broke the quiet. A muffled thud of a body hitting the floor... The door opened, revealing the shadowed figure of the ghost known as the Winter Soldier. Eyes darted around the waiting room, not a single glance spared for the dead doctor he had left behind him. His target had been simple today. No challenge whatsoever. His eyes finally settled on a weathered newspaper clutched in the hands of a dead patient in the waiting room.   
  
Captain America. The Enemy. He moved across the room, fetching the paper to skim the article, his lips curling in a sneer. Americans and their self-aggrandizing pageantry. A name on the page caught his eye and he paused, a series of images flashing through his mind. Why would this affect him so? Who the hell was Bucky?   
  
Disgusted, but unable to shake the odd feeling, he tore out the article, folding it and tucking it into his vest. He would get to the bottom of this and dismiss it. Then he could go back to his duty without these odd flashes in his brain.


	2. A Silent Echo

His orders had been simple, the kill swift. Doctors were so easy, so trusting. Unfortunately, there had been an eyewitness. The Weapon had gotten sloppy. He perched on the roof of a building, opposite his crime scene, silent and raging. He had underestimated the reaction time of the Enemy. It was not the fault of Mother Russia and her intelligence, the failing was all his. He was The Weapon. If he could not fulfill his orders, then there would be re-education. His spine stiffened, his expression beneath the mask unwavering. He would submit to the re-education without complaint. Clearly there was a crack in his programming.

One of his handlers had worried about just such a thing last time he'd been in the chair. They were pulling him out for more and more missions. He was left outside of the cryogenic chamber more and more. There was less and less time spent with the re-educators. He had heard, they never knew when he was listening, he had heard worries that his programming would suffer for such lapses. But the Hateful Americans had their little toy soldier back, so The Weapon was needed. The Winter Soldier was a resource, and Mother Russia would not waste such things.

Picking carefully from the weapons laid out in front of him, he lifted the Tokarev SVT-40 to his eye. The scope, similar to the one modified to fit his Mosin–Nagant, was simple, and though the weapon was trickier than the Mosin, he enjoyed the heft it had in his hands. Lining up with the sight he examined the Hateful Americans milling about in his crime scene. Each set of footsteps covering his tracks better, the fools were practically doing his job for him. All he needed now was that pesky eye witness.

The barrel of the gun paused, a flicker of surprise catching him as a female form crossed his sights. He had heard that America was so lacking in men of worth that they were forced to press women into service, but even he had hardly believed it. Following her for a moment, he caught sight of something that gave him pause. The toy soldier. The Americans frozen hero. That twinge of faint recognition flashed through him, but he pushed it down. Of course he recognized the man, he was the very symbol of The Enemy. For a moment his finger rests on the trigger... one bullet and he could rid Mother Russia of this particular thorn...

The Winter Soldier's training was too thorough though. Captain America, regardless of the difficulties he caused, was not on the List. With no kill order, the Weapon could not fire. Instead he scanned the crowd, finally catching sight of the eye witness. Perhaps the Enemy would come chase him, and he would be granted a collateral kill. Silent and unsmiling, he pulled the trigger, putting a bullet through the witness.

With swift, efficient movements, the man once known as Bucky disassembled his weapons in record time, tucking them all away and racing across the rooftop to the escape. An unfamiliar thrill of anticipation ran through him. Perhaps today he would do Mother Russia a great service, and eradicate the symbol of America. Still, mission parametres needed to be followed. Racing down the stairs three and four at a time he hit the street, grabbing a large trench coat he shrugged into it, disguising his metal arm and the bag. Collar up to hide his mask, he moved into the crowd of people one street over, meandering along as if he hadn't a care in the world. Still, he hoped the foolish hero would find him. He'd like to eliminate the odd memories that kept flashing through his mind.

The hero pursued, moving with a swiftness and speed that matched the Winter Soldier. His voice, coarse and heavy floated over the crowd, demanding that the assassin halt. Could he be picked out of the crown? Perhaps. The Russian tool slipped around a corner, gathering his thoughts and planning his next move as people continued to mill around, not clearing the path that their patriotic defendor so clearly wished them to do.

The Weapon stilled, a trick that very few could truly master. It was not the same as stopping, he simply... ceased moving. The already nervous civilians drew further aside before he turned, the heavy dark markings under his eyes and half mask obscuring his face, shaggy hair hanging forward to further conceal his identity. He had hoped that the American would catch up, and the little toy soldier had not disappointed. He drew his sidearms, causing a ripple of terror and the fleeing of the remaining civilians close enough to see what was happening. The sheep stampeded towards Captain America, but the Winter Soldier cared not. He fired into the crowd, before turning to flee down an alleyway, the flash of metal under his jacket catching the sunlight in a single, blinding moment.

Though the little tin soldier had failed, the Weapon did not consider his mission a success. Nor did his superiors. He had been spotted, and he had diverted from the task at hand. A session of reeducation was in order. Something about these sessions pierced deeper than any bullet wound, pulling sounds of pain and terror from the normally silent creature of destruction. Afterwards he was left, panting and shuddering, to sit in a cell and think on where he had failed Mother Russia. The lesson was learned, he would not stray from mission parametres again. He was the Winter Soldier. The Nameless Weapon. His only goals were that which were given to him. His only target was a picture slid under the door. Distractions were not to be tolerated.

Several days later he was once again ensconced in the chair within the lab, his handlers bustling about, making adjustments to the shiny metal arm. The technology was still imperfect, though far more advanced than what the average soldier received. Experimental even, which without his particular conditioning could prove more of a hindrance than a help.


	3. Chapter 3

His mission was given to him, the picture of his next target placed directly in his hand as the scientists worked. Apparently the American Vice President was going to be out and about, gracing the people of New York with his illustrious presence. The capitalists were playing at games of war, posturing and placating when they should be fighting. They deserved the bloody rain about to be unleashed upon them. The red tide was coming, and it's herald was Death.

The Weapon arrived back in New York in the dead of night, no fanfare, no witnesses to his progress. He was, indeed, a ghost in a town full of the nameless. He touched base nowhere, the scum of the city's underbelly having no interest to HYDRA or the Russians. He was here to serve his purpose, nothing more. Proceeding to the hotel the Vice President was supposedly going to be staying at, he began the slow process of staking it out, judging vantage points and trajectories, marking down security measures and shift changes. There would be no errors this time.

The man who did not know he was once Bucky Barnes was ready. He'd scouted his terrain thoroughly, chosen the best vantage point for the job he had been assigned. The vice president of the United States of America was slated to give a speech in the town square below the Weapon's current position in a little less than half an hour. Public appearances such as these were a sign of the Enemy's arrogance and ignorance, futile posturing to demonstrate their lack of fear. His job was to shatter the illusion of invulnerability they had built for themselves. This would prove to the capitalist pigs that no where was safe. The Winter Soldier would find them wherever they went to ground, would follow them to their very doors if necessary.

He was no beginner, fresh from the Russian training camps, to set up in a windowsill like a bad American film. He had chosen an office building with low cubicles, using the drone's desk in the very centre of the room to set out the pieces of his rifle. With deliberate motions he built the weapon, a litany running through his head and spilling quietly from his lips as he worked. "Here we live, here we die. This is the land where our hearts lie." The propaganda had been drilled so deeply into his psyche that he didn't even know he was muttering it.

Everything prepared he propped the barrel of the rifle on the flimsy cubicle divider, sighting the vice president's podium. Putting the gun carefully aside, he moved a few things in the office around, sighting once more. A grunt of satisfaction echoed in the quiet room. Perfection. His shot was without interruption, and accounting for the glass of the window, he knew he could tumble the target from his soap box at the height of whatever ridiculous lecture he was about to give the gathering crowd.

The security detail swarmed the stage area as he watched, ensuring the safety of their charge to the best of their abilities. The Weapon neither pitied them, nor derided them. They were inconsequential. Every man down there was simply a minor obstacle between himself and his target, HYDRA's goals, and Mother Russia's freedom. He was a tool, a Weapon with no match. Nameless and faceless, he was the ghostly hand of death that stretched across oceans to serve a greater purpose.

The man's eyes narrowed, adjusting the view to examine each of the vice president's men. Something was off. Flicking over the first few, he tried to determine the difference. There. That face wasn't one he'd noted when scouting, it wasn't entirely unfamiliar either. The Weapon's brow furrowed in a frown. This was a wrinkle in his plan, an unforeseen hitch that there had been no space for, he couldn't afford errors. Making a split-second decision, he packed up his gear, stowing it in a loose ceiling tile. This Captain America would have to be dealt with first. The fingers of his metal hand clenched into a fist as he tugged on his long trench coat. This would be the last time said 'hero' interfered.


	4. Chapter 4

Accidents were a simple matter to cause, and a handy distraction. Tempers flared around automobiles, and the American couldn't seem to help himself. He had to step in and interfere in every petty problem, regardless as to what the job at hand happened to be. It was a flaw... hopefully a fatal one, that the Weapon was happy to take advantage of. Just past the wreckage he parted his jacket with one sweeping gesture of his metal hand, withdrawing a Mauser C96. In small, precise movements he unholstered it from it's detachable wooden stock and snapped everything into place, carefully avoiding flashing the weapon to the excited crowd.

The Winter Soldier took several large steps back, dark gaze sweeping over the scene until they locked on the American Captain. In another time, he might have expressed joy or satisfaction at his manipulations of the events, but since his last... treatment things had been more hollow. There was only duty. There was only this. Bracing the stock against his leg, beneath the jacket, he fired the automatic pistol from the hip. Spraying bullets through the crowd and at the American icon.

As soon as the cartridge was empty he snapped off the stock and reholstered the pistol, tucking it away and withdrawing the much sleeker TT-30 in it's place. The semi-automatic was better for precision work, and settled easily into his hand as he threaded his way through the screaming crowd. One moment they had been at each other's throats, and now they were united in their need to escape whatever new horror had been unleashed upon them. The war was still too fresh in their minds, and they were a jumpy, untrusting lot.

With a few more discreet shots, he herded the panicked animals towards the hero, keeping bodies between them until he was prepared. At just the right moment, he used bullets to part the crowd, staring silently at Rogers for several, long moments, before whirling the coat dramatically about him as he turned and made haste into the nearest building. Perhaps the Captain would be better and run and catch this time.

The American's little tin soldier crashed into the Weapon's shoulder, causing him to stagger and stumble, almost losing his footing for the first time in his long career. Mistakes were something he was unfamiliar with, something not to be tolerated. He cradled the gun in his one hand that was still flesh and blood, it's metallic counterpart bracing him against the entrance to the warehouse he'd been aiming for.

"This ends now. You're coming with me."

So cocky, the star-spangled hero could be. So sure that the Weapon would just roll over and concede. What charmed life led to that kind of unfounded self-belief? The thoughts were quelled as fast as they came up. He was зимний солдат. He wondered not, merely completed the mission. Dispatching the Captain was not part of the mission, but since the soldier insisted on standing between the Weapon and his target... well he'd just have to go slightly off-mission.

He wasn't programmed to justify his actions, not even to himself. It caused... problems when things went this far off track. Yet he would not retreat and return another time, this kill was already taking longer than necessary. Lank locks of hair hanging across his grease-paint streaked face, he raised the TT-30 once more, sighting down the barrel at the living symbol of capitalist triumph.

There was no need to confuse things with banter. Perhaps that was how the Americans won their little skirmishes, talking their opponent into doing or saying something foolish, but a ghost didn't speak. It simply killed and vanished, like a злой дух picking away at the unsuspecting, bringing death in the dark of night.

Cold brown eyes unblinking, face unemotional, he pulls the trigger.


	5. Chapter 5

The bullets hit Rogers in the shoulder and left arm as he moves quickly to avoid a kill shot. What bullets that do hit him, slam into him hard enough to knock him back and he stumbles, his knees threatening to buckle. He'd taken harder shots but this one was a surprise to him. He grimaces ignoring the pain and the blood pouring out of his wounds. Gritting his teeth he grabs a pipe discarded on the floor and throws it as hard as he can at the Ghost. He knows it won't do much but it's just enough to stop the spray of bullet long enough for him to run and charge him. Steve slams his shoulder as hard as he can into the Ghost's gut as he tackles him to the ground. Slamming his fist down again and again he growls with rage.  
  
"STAY DOWN!"   
  
Steve knows this is getting desperate. The Ghost is willing to kill anyone to get at him or away from him. It seems the Ghost has no other reaction than to kill. Captain America is supposed to be ready yet there he is, bleeding and running out of safe ways to bring this to a close. Grabbing the gun away and throwing it away from the Ghost he raises his fist again, blue eyes usually full of peace stare down at the Ghost with a vengeful fire.   
  
"Stay. Down."

The man that was once James Buchanan Barnes stared up into the eyes of Steve Rogers, no recollection registering in their dark depths. No real emotion on display. He was surprised by the ferocity of the tin soldier's response, he had not believed the supposed hero had it within him. Still, losing was not an option.

The Winter Soldier raised his metal arm, not bothering to bat at the fists aiming for his face, instead driving forward to wrap around the American sweetheart's throat. He put the slightest pressure in the fabricated fingers, his own face deepening into a scowl.

"You think because you are on top that you are the winner, Captain America? Is that the foolishness they teach you here in America?" The time and conditioning spent by the Russians hadn't erased the Ghost's own American accent, one of the reasons he so rarely spoke. Still, Rogers had proved himself deserving of at least a word. He was a surprising opponent, and the Weapon had not fought one so worthy in a long time. Perhaps ever.

He squeezed his hand tighter, pushing the super soldier up and off of him. He would not stay down, could not. His programming would not permit it. The only permissible conclusions were death or victory, there would be no surrender. "If I still draw breath, you lose. That is the truth of the world we live in. Yet you still fight against it. Sometimes, I think you like being punched."

With that the зимний солдат pulled back his other fist and aimed it at Rogers' temple.


End file.
